


Three of a Kind. Hangover Cure.

by Dog in the Manger (anabelle)



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabelle/pseuds/Dog%20in%20the%20Manger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot written for Secret Snowflake on LJ. Mary and Marshall transport a witness to Chicago and take a detour to hang out with Bobby. Blizzard. Blackout. Darts. Truth or Dare. Strip Poker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three of a Kind. Hangover Cure.

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Disclaimer. I do not own In Plain Sight or its characters. I borrow them for entertainment, not for profit. I do not own or endorse any brands, events or establishments used in any of my stories. The plot and characters are fictional and do not include any actual person or event. The opinions expressed by characters do not reflect my personal views on the subject.

Mary awoke flat on her back, disoriented and feeling like crap. She opened her eyes, but could not see a thing through the material, which was draped over her head. Her temples throbbed as if a dozen snare drums were beating inside and her tongue felt like sand paper against her parched palate. To make matters worse, she could not move, pinned down with weight of some sort.

 _"Don't panic, Shannon,"_ she told herself. _"First, see if this damn fabric will slide off your face when you move."_

Mary turned her face and the material rubbed against her cheek. It felt pretty good on her skin, dark blue silk or satin, she could not quite tell. She wiggled up a little and bumped something soft with her head. __

_A pillow?_ The revelation cleared up one thing.

 _Pure genius, Mary,_ she thought. _It only took you five minutes to figure out you're in bed._

Confirming her assumption was a sound that made her pounding headache worse: someone snored into her left ear. She tried to remember something from the night before, but came up empty. Before further torturing herself with reconstructing the events that lead to her current state, she pried free her right arm. Unfortunately, that move was followed by another loud snore that ripped through her brain. She winced from pain, realizing, to her horror, that this time the sound came from her right. She reached up and grabbed what she assumed had to be a bed sheet, pulling it off her head. She had to figure out where she was. Taking in the scene before her eyes, she groaned. Marshall Mann was passed out on her right and Robert Dershowitz on her left. Fragmented images from the day before flooded her brain: Chicago, blizzard, black-out in a bar, Bobby's place.

Mary looked down: she lay in bed, still wearing her jeans and a sweater she was in yesterday. The weight, which was pinning her down, was a set of familiar limbs. She yanked her left arm from underneath the covers and pushed the long legs of her partner out of her way. Marshall mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, turned onto his side and snuggled into his pillow, snoring softly. She tried to wake him, but her efforts fell flat: her partner was dead to the world.

Mary tumbled off the bed with a curse, shoving Bobby aside. He did not even budge, letting out another loud snore.

 _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I feel bad for any woman that has to put up with this one-man band,_ she thought, rubbing her temples.

 _At least, Marshall only snores when he's completely smashed… Why do I know that…?_ She was not inclined to give the idea any more thought. There were more urgent matters to consider, such as getting rid of her raging headache.

Mary turned around and glanced at the bed: both men were sleeping bare-chested, but still clad in their jeans. If Mary had not been nursing the mother of all hangovers, she would have taken the time to admire the finely sculpted bodies spread out in front of her. She briefly considered snapping a shot with her phone, but decided against it, as her mind conjured up an image of the three of them playing strip poker. Some things were best left undocumented.

Mary wiggled her toes. She could feel the coolness of the hardwood floor through her socks. It seemed, she had had the presence of mind to remove her boots before collapsing. The challenge that she faced now, however, was to find the damn pair. Sliding her hand against the wall for support, Mary wobbled to the kitchen through the living room. The culprit of her ailment this morning sat on the coffee table among the scattered deck of cards. Three empty bottles: two of scotch and one with about two fingers of tequila left. Shaking her head in disgust, she tripped over her boots lying in the middle of the floor. Cursing, she doubled over to pull them on and was overcome by a wave of nausea. To avoid making a mess, she flopped on her butt and closed her eyes to wait until the room stopped spinning.

This was ridiculous. Mary had to find something to deal with the aftereffects of what looked like a fun night. Not that she could remember any of it.

 _Yet,_ she thought, _I cannot remember it yet._ Judging by how she felt, Mary needed to make at least a gallon of Jinx' famous hangover brew. If lack of mobility was any indication, her drinking buddies would wake up in a condition quite similar to hers. Sighing, Mary stumbled into the kitchen. First, she studied the contents of Bobby's fridge, then his pantry. There was not much there to help ease pain and dehydration from their collective overindulgence. Mary remembered seeing a deli downstairs, when they had arrived to Bobby's building the night before. She struggled into her jacket and made her way out the door.

Once in the elevator, she pulled a pair of sunglasses on her face and started piecing together the day that lead to this debacle: Mary and Marshall got stuck in Chicago after an emergent witness transfer. Even though the marshals from Buffalo, NY, took the fidgety witness off their hands at the airport, she and Marshall had to report to a local office to file all required paperwork. It was one of those days when a two hour delay made all the difference: a blizzard blew into the Chicago area closing down all airports and leaving half the city without power. All airport hotels were overbooked by people stranded in the city, trying to get home for the holidays. While the USMS travel desk scrambled to get the marshals booked at any hotel, Marshall called Dershowitz and asked if Bobby wanted to hang out. Marshall figured if they were stuck in Windy City, it did not hurt to catch up with an old friend. They met at a bar by the office, but the power was knocked out shortly thereafter.

" _Let's get out of this joint,"_ Bobby had said. _"I've got spirits and darts at my place. And a pizza guy on speed dial. We can get the real deal here, Deep Dish. They don't make anything like it in Albuquerque."_

The marshals accepted his invitation, albeit not without hesitation. At the end of the day, the two were stuck: the travel desk dragged their feet on hotel reservations because putting up two WitSec marshals at the Peninsula or the Four Seasons would blow up the budget, and everything else was either without power or booked. They would get rooms eventually, although, Mary did not put it past the service bureaucrats to have them bunk on cots at the local office or in a raggedy motel on the outskirts of the city. Clearly, Bobby's place had distinct advantage over all those options. As an added bonus, it came with heat and electricity: conveniences of modern society, which were often taken for granted when available in abundance.

They brought a bottle of scotch, despite Bobby's reassurances that he had more than enough alcohol for the three of them.

 _"I'm not drinking moonshine, D."_ Mary had told him, making them stop at a liquor store on the way to his place.

She cursed Stan, even though it had nothing to do with him, his bosses, the accounting department and the travel desk all the way from the bar to Bobby's place.

" _Shannon, would you just shut it already,"_ Bobby told her with a smirk. _"Quit yer bitching, or we'll leave you out in the cold."_

Mary remembered punching him in the arm and following Marshall into the building.

Walking into the store, Mary was still fuzzy on how they got from darts to swapping stories to truth and dare, and finally whose bright idea it was to get the cards out for a hand or two of poker. If she had to guess, the later was her own doing. She would never admit to getting rattled by their family Christmas tales while her inebriated mind took her back to her Jersey childhood. That trip down memory lane pushed her to offer up a challenge neither man could resist. They had no way of knowing that Daddy had taught her to play during snow days that were aplenty the winter before he split. She hooked them in by losing the first few hands and taking off her boots. Now it made that much more sense that her boots were left in the middle of the living room floor.

Mary would have stripped her friends naked, but even in her drunken stupor she had enough sense to stop before things got weird.

 _Riiiight, because waking up in bed with both of them was not weird at all,_ she thought with irritation. She could not decide who she was pissed off at more: Bobby, Marshall, or herself. None of them had a habit of getting drunk; that was her mother's prerogative.

" _What the hell happened?"_ she mused, wandering through the crammed narrow aisles of the deli.

Mary picked up a jar of honey, a few lemons, a bunch of bananas, a few sprigs of fresh thyme, a celery heart, and a ginger root. Then she made her way to the industrial size fridge and got as many bottles of water with electrolytes as her basket would fit. Before stopping at the register, she yanked a jar of tomato juice from a shelf for good measure.

A clerk, who was ringing up her purchases, reached for the top shelf and offered her a box Alka-Seltzer.

"It's a better choice than a home-made concoction you're about to subject yourself to," he said, gesturing to everything he had packed up for her. "There's no proof any of this stuff actually works."

"Just give me that," she said, jerking the bags off the counter and stumbling out of the store.

She made it back before either Marshall or Bobby joined land of the living. She walked into the bedroom and pulled open the drapes.

"Rise and shine, idiots!"

Their only response was a snore chorus loud enough to raise the dead. Mary returned to the kitchen, deciding to start on the hangover remedy. Before walking out, she had popped a few ibuprofens to ease her headache and it had abated somewhat. She turned on the coffeemaker. After rummaging through Bobby's cupboards she found what she was looking for. Smiling viciously, she loaded up the carafe, plugged in the blender and pressed the button. Loud noise filled the small kitchen and she winced from pain. Her headache was back with a vengeance. She released the button, but the noise would not stop.

Mary jerked the blender out of the outlet, but the noise kept going, and going, and going…

She opened her eyes, awaking tangled up in bed sheets in her own house. She had dreamed the entire thing, including the hangover headache after a witness transport from hell. Making her way into the kitchen, she stared at her sister in confusion. Brandi was oblivious to Mary's reaction, humming to the radio and making a breakfast smoothie.

"Squish, what the hell are you doing?" Mary asked, trying to shake off remnants of her dream. "What's with the racket at this ungodly hour?"

"But, Mary, you said I could stay with you until I find my own place," Brandi whined. "And it's not that early. It's after eight. Don't you have work today?"

Mary accepted a coffee mug her sister offered, remembering Brandi had returned to Albuquerque a few days ago, contrite about not having a place to stay after walking out on Peter. Naturally, Mary's protective instinct kicked into high gear, and before she knew it, Brandi was moving her stuff back into her old bedroom.

Lost in thought, Mary glanced at the microwave. Realizing her sister was right about the time; she cursed under her breath and stalked back into her bedroom. She had to call Marshall to let him know she overslept. He would be picking her up shortly, seeing as her car was in the shop again. Since Brandi had taken off with her Celica, Peter managed to procure another Probe, which was as much of a junker as all other versions of the model Mary had driven over the years.

Marshall sat in the SUV in Mary's driveway, sipping his morning coffee. Figuring he still had quite some time to wait since his partner had called earlier to tell him she overslept, he pulled a fancy black envelope out of the glove box. Opening the flap, he gave the text of the invitation another thought. He would have never guessed Bobby would dig a bachelor party as ostentatious as one awaiting him in less than a month, but he held proof in his hands. A block of rooms had been set aside at the Wynn; and the impending nuptials booked at the W hotel in Chicago the following weekend. Before Marshall knew it, scenes from _Hangover_ flashed in his mind.

"Whatcha got there, partner?" Mary asked, getting into the SUV and grabbing her coffee from the cup holder.

"Um… An invitation," Marshall said, sliding the envelope into the breast pocket of his jacket. He may have missed her approach, but not so the predatory gleam in her eyes as her gaze followed his hand, which held the envelope.

"An invitation to the dungeon of Lady Heather?" she asked with a smirk. "Indulging in BDSM on the side, Prudence?" She tried to sound nonchalant, but her tone betrayed her: the pang of jealousy she felt was not altogether unexpected.

Marshall nearly choked on his coffee.

"No, Mare. You really ought to stop watching CSI marathons without me. This is an invitation to Bobby's bachelor party later this month."

"Oh, okay," she said, breathing out a visible sign of relief. She was decidedly off her game today. They had only started dating a few months back and the thought, however unlikely, that Marshall enjoyed an alternative lifestyle rubbed her the wrong way.

"That damn wedding. I still have to get a dress."

"Please tell me you are not taking Brandi shopping with you? I don't think we'll make it to the reception if she outfits you in another one of her numbers," he said, color creeping into his cheeks.

"Yes, I seem to remember your finding that dress rather appealing…"

She was baiting him, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

"I'm sure whatever you get is going to look stunning," he said, pulling out of the driveway. "You ready for rounds?"

"Ah, aren't you sweet," she said with a smirk. "Were you planning to tell me where this bachelor party is taking place?"

"Vegas?" His voice carried a more quizzical note, than he intended.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"A bit of both…" he said, unable to hide his jovial grin.

"Just stay away from the poker tables."


End file.
